


The False Dragonborn

by Phantom_Feline



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bad People Can Be Good Friends, Cannibalism, Champion of Namira, Dark Humor, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Intersex Character(s), Multi, Multiple Daedric Champions, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Shamanism, graphic cannibalism, headcanons abound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23337166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantom_Feline/pseuds/Phantom_Feline
Summary: A hypothetical question: what do you get when you add a remarkably well preserved Argonian from the 2nd Era, a dragon that died long, long ago, and someone from our world who has logged well over 3000 hours on their copy of Skyrim? Oh, and by add, I mean...well. The rogue Conjurers of Fellglow Keep. Souls are remarkable things, you know?Wait, nevermind, that's exactly what happened. The result, you ask?Oh, you'd best ask Echo. Be careful, though; she's rather fond of poisons, these days.Or: Bad things happen, and suddenly Fate isn't so certain. The Last Dragonborn still must awaken, but there is another mortal in Skyrim with the soul of a dragon and a hunger to swallow the world. Behold! The False Dragonborn!
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. The Three-Part Problem

**Author's Note:**

> Hi.
> 
> To anyone who reads my other fics and somehow reads in Skyrim, too (and wasn't scared off by the tags); double hi! It's been a while. Nothing is abandoned, the usual thing. I know, it's been about two years. I needed to take a step back to handle real life, because in the span of a year and a month (about two months after I posted my most recent update), both of my grandparents, who had been fixtures in my life for the past two decades or so, died. So yeah, I needed time. And I picked up a copy of Skyrim, and now here we are.
> 
> So, this fic is a mutant plot bunny and I don't even know what to say about it. Mind the tags. Notice there's not an Angst tag? Yep, that's on purpose. Can you have a dark fic that heavily features cannibalism and not have angst? I will damn well make it so. Will there be inappropriate food jokes? You bet your ass there will. Is there eventually going to be a frat house of Daedric Champions? Most likely.
> 
> Also, as a side note, some things are still up in the air. As in (not relevant yet, and probably not for a bit) the identity of the Last Dragonborn. I haven't decided if they're going to be another OC or an already existing character. That being, I will take requests if you can make an argument ;3 (Or make me laugh, honestly.)
> 
> And finally, to the likely very small group of people willing to even click into this humble little pit of madness: Please enjoy c:

The False Dragonborn

Chapter 1: The Three-Part Problem

“Ugh, what a reek! Are you sure these lizards are still alive?”

She was being crushed under a cold, stinking weight, facedown into putrid-thick water and icy-slick stone. She was numb, petrified, stiff like the dead while the _smell_ , the smell of rot and burned meat clung heavy in her lungs, to her tongue.

“You had better hope they are. She wanted one born under the Ritual, those are…”

Two voices, close but somehow muffled. She heard but couldn’t understand; everything was muddled, slow. Within her head was an endless expanse of echoing darkness, and something vitally important was missing. A connection. _Everything_.

“Over here, there should be two left but I only see—no, there’s the other. Looks like you’ll need to get your feet wet after all; I need help moving this one.”

Sloshing, waves that lapped across her nose, over her head. She breathed, trying to move and failing. Confusion was beginning to penetrate the thick, sick fog clouding her thoughts. This was wrong. She was doing something important—no. Something _vital_. She was needed somewhere—Thorn? Or was it Stormhold?

“Hurry up before this muck ruins my boots.”

The crushing weight shifted, lurched – a ripping squelch, and then cold, slimy ropes slithered across her back and sides. Coughing and gagging above her, another wave of putrid water doing little to shift the rotting intestines as their previous owner was forcefully heaved from her back, landing with a muted splash beside her. It was dim, but her eyes were open, her head in just the right position to see him; frills ragged, one eye shriveled to nothing and the other bloated, filmed white, most of his face sloughed off like dead lichen.

Something must have gone wrong. She must have failed. She must have been…captured? _Enslaved_?

More water was being thrown over her, deliberate, and then hands were touching her – soft skins. Men. _Mer_.

And still she was petrified, unable to move, barely able to breathe. It shouldn’t have been possible. She should have countered it by now, somehow…

They carried her out of the darkness, up stairs and into a tunnel lit by smoking torches, and the one gripping her under the arms nearly dropped her when he stumbled. She could mostly understand him when he spoke, this time; something similar to the trader’s tongue of men, but harsher.

“Where,” he drawled slowly, his accent, _his accent_ ; _that_ was familiar, it sent a bolt of blood-burning _hatred_ through her. “ _Where_ did our esteemed mistress manage to acquire this rare treasure?”

The one with a painful grip around her ankles grunted in frustration, and they began moving again. This one spoke his tongue with an unfamiliar brogue and a certain flavor of skepticism. “If I remember right, she had pirates intercept a ship from Morrowind on its way to Solsteim, Mora knows how. Or why.”

The _dark elf_ laughed. “My, someone in House Telvanni is going to be quite upset over this, how I wish I could see it!”

Telvanni? No, it wasn’t—

“Over _one lizard_? Don’t your people enslave them by the hundreds?”

“Oh, nevermind, nevermind. Do you think she’ll let me have this one when she’s done?”

/-/

_Fire_ their skin was on _fire_ they were _screaming_ but their voice was _wrong_.

“If you won’t answer, then you simply shall not speak, hmm? I can find out for myself.”

Gold skin-gold hair-gold eyes-gold hands —wrongwrong _wrong_ everything was _wrong_ , it was _impossible_ , it couldn’t be _real_ ,— and a strip of leather wrapped around their…snout?

“Now, let’s try this again.”

Hands coming closer and a sound like a warping warble and purple-black-glow—a hallucination? It _had to be_ —

/-/

Carving sharp, burn-pain, the sizzle of flesh. A dark cave of a stone room lit by candles on the floor. An altar broken by a boulder. A statue, tilted; a man with a sword and a winged helmet. A snake. A stone axe-head.

/-/

The muzzle chafed in a way that grated beyond the physical sensation of pain. The body was much the same; not _right_ , but not as wrong as it could have been.

The result was the same.

Binding.

Weakness.

Some arcane, mortal contraption around the wrists that drained magicka faster than it could recover, even with the surprisingly deep reserves.

Time passed, unremarked. Tiid frul.

/-/

A bright green glow woke her, and she slumped into relaxed placidity as the foreign magicka melted into her, sweet murmurs soothing her to peaceful compliance as she opened her eyes.

Neither of the Dunmer in the room (bedroom?) were looking at her, though the woman’s fingers still trailed tendrils of haunting, soothing green light.

“That Pacify should last about six hours, so make sure you’ve got her trussed up again before it wears off. Or don’t. So long as I get that dagger you promised me, I couldn’t care less if she ripped your dick off and fed it to you.”

“Charming as always, Salyilu. I expected better than six hours from an ‘expert’, though. I don’t know if that’s worth the cost of the soul gem I’ll need for your enchantment…” That voice…He was…Familiar?

“Your new toy has a magic resistance, congratulations. Find me and I’ll charm her again, but you’d better keep your end of the bargain.” The woman paused one step outside the door and looked back over her black-clad shoulder. “Ineris. I don’t suppose you care to hear the lasting effects of keeping something under Illusion magic for so long?”

One hand already on the door, Ineris asked, “Will it kill her?”, and at the Illusionist’s negative answer, curtly said; “No.” and closed the heavy door, locking it with a harsh metal scrape.

He turned to her and smiled, white teeth and creased eyes, coming in close to release the ropes binding the thick shackles around her wrists together. His hands lingered, the gray of his skin only a couple shades lighter than her scales, his fingers tracing feather-light over the irritated wounds beneath the carved ebony shackles. She shivered, but was otherwise still, complacent under the hold of the spell.

“Hmm, let’s get you out of these rags, my dear. Stand for me.” Standing, she was at least a full head taller than him, but the Dunmer only appeared more delighted as he stripped her bare of the roughspun tunic and trousers, only ever hesitating at the leather binding her jaws, until he took that, too. He ‘tsk’ed at the blood that immediately began seeping from the wound, but smiled as he watched it trickle down her neck.

“Go lay on the bed. Belly down.”

She did. Her mind remained blissfully quiet the entire time.

/-/

The woman came back later, hours after Ineris had gone, having left her bound securely in one of his room’s two chairs. There was a new dagger at her hip, some wicked Orcish thing that gleamed with faint blue enchantment. Her eyes were such a deep red as to almost be black, her lips painted to match—pursed tight, as she studied the state Ineris had left her in. It only took the dark elf a moment to grab one of the furs from the bed and throw it over her lap, hiding the mess of her blood and his seed pooled between her unclothed thighs.

“I don’t have anything against you,” said the woman in that accursed accent, ignoring the way she was straining against her binds, aching body _screaming_ to get free, to hurt, to kill, to do _anything_ but wait for _him_ to come back. “It really isn’t personal. Ineris is the best Enchanter in the keep, and I needed a new dagger.”

She snarled as best she could with her mouth bound shut once more. Lies, wretched lies.

A brief, strange emotion flashed over the other woman’s face, strands of glowing green magicka coiling around her hand like creeping vines.

The door swung open, and Ineris came in, arterial-red eyes lighting up when they landed on her. He was a sick one.

The spell connected, peaceful compliance smothering thought like the thickest mud.

/-/

Green light. The heavy slam of his door, scrape and click of the lock.

Ineris moved her chair to the table before pushing her to sit, gone briefly and then reappearing with a bloodstained sack in his hands. From it he drew an entire arm, scales dull and flaking but still retaining a color somewhere between red and orange.

Her eyes stung when the leather strap was unwound, blurring the vision of gray-skinned arms reaching around her, hands carving a chunk of red, red meat from the limb, holding it delicately before her nose with two fingers.

“Open up, my dear, we must keep you fed,” the Dunmer practically sang, free hand hot where it cradled her jaw. He pulled her head back until she could feel his heartbeat, fast and hard.

She obeyed, of course she did, why wouldn’t she? And it was good, meat rich and soft on her tongue, the same flavor as the blood that seeped from the weeping wounds caused by the strap. She was opening her mouth for another piece almost before the first was in her empty, aching stomach.

Ineris laughed and laughed and laughed, but fed her until the arm was naught but red, red bones.

/-/

Green light.

The Dunmer woman –Sal, Salyi..?– leaned in close, the gleam of the new enchantment on the silver pendant around her neck a pleasant, hypnotizing distraction. The deep crimson of the woman’s eyes flickered in the torchlight, her lips thinning the longer her gaze sought and failed to make a connection. She sighed and moved away.

“I used to wonder, you know,” the other woman spoke, and it was only then that she realized that Ineris wasn’t in the room at all. The Illusionist never spoke to her otherwise. Probably. “If he had taken to one of the Corners, because surely a madness like his couldn’t be a mortal sickness. I still think that, though now perhaps it is two Corners.”

She blinked and pulled once against the binds that kept her restrained on the reeking chair, aching and starving and almost blissfully thoughtless. The elf looked away, the green-tinged gray of her knuckles paling as her fists clenched.

“If you’re still in there, I _am_ sorry. Look. _Look_!” The woman unsheathed the wicked, gleaming dagger from her belt and tucked it behind the wardrobe. “I’m sorry.”

The woman left in a quick swish of black robes, not once looking back.

Within her, something stirred, hungry and cunning. Her eyes didn’t leave the spot the blade rested until Ineris returned.

/-/

Green light.

The Illusionist’s gaze locked with hers, searching, until Ineris snapped at the woman to leave.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered tersely, and she did, but there was something in her head, a feeling, a thought, something that _growled_.

She had barely settled before he was on her, one hand gripped tight into feathers and forcing her to fight for breath through the hay-stuffed pillow, the fingers of the other pushed roughly into her, slick with oil but painful all the same. Barely a minute later he had buried himself to the hilt, movements fast and rough, forcing what little air she had out in hitched, hissing exhales.

He was silent but for grunts of effort, growls on his deepest thrusts, a groan when finally, _finally_ he peaked. Only then did his grip on her head loosen, allowing her just enough freedom to pull in desperate, heaving breaths through blood-tacky nostrils. His full weight rested limply across her back, his softening member only then slipping out, leaving behind an ache that never seemed to disappear while the growling in her head grew louder, louder, louder.

And while the Dunmer slept, the forced placidity and calm was wearing off, and she stared at the reeking chair stained with the torment this elf inflicted on her, and her stomach turned with hunger and hate so twisted together that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Ineris had grown complacent. She wasn’t bound. He was sleeping.

Slowly, slowly, by the smallest of increments, she slipped out from beneath him, and he didn’t so much as twitch. She stared down at him, the bare expanse of slate gray skin splayed loose across the stained furs, and raked her claws down her jaws, tearing the strip of leather from her face, heedless of the burning lines of fire left behind.

The whim was a mockery of the way he first touched her; gentle claws trailed over skin just a few shades lighter than her scales, up his arm and shoulder, feather-light over his neck, up his cheek and over gently twitching eyelids. And as arterial-red eyes cracked open, still pleasure-hazed, she lunged, bit, tore, blood and air foaming pink where her teeth buried deep in his neck—shake, shake, rip, swallow.

The horror in his eyes remained until she plucked them from their sockets and ate them, too. She ate until she couldn’t eat anymore, hollow stomach rounded and aching, red bones smeared across the furs. Only then did she stop, to glory in finally being free of the spell, feelings her own once more. But her head was echoing with an emptiness of knowledge, of purpose, and…

There were other things there. Things that may have been there the whole time, but weren’t there _before._

**Go** , said one of them, old and cunning and cruel in a way that was alien, true to _it_ but maybe not to _her_. **Take the right of conquest and leave.**

_Hurry_ , said the other, quavering, laughing and crying, full of strange knowledge –prophecy?– but even more alien than the first, so very unused to the cruelty inherent to men and mer. _Go south. To Riften. To the_ _Warrens_ _. Wait. Hurry, go, go…_

And… Neither offered bad advice, as far as she could tell. And so she ransacked Ineris’ room of everything worth slipping into a knapsack, all his enchanted treasures, and left, guided through unfamiliar halls to freedom by the crying seer, fueled by the cruel satisfaction of the ancient monster. Both tucked into the vast emptiness of her head where something else ought to be, but wasn’t. Both bleeding at the edges, much as she was.

**_Freedom at last_** , they said as they slipped out into the cold night, moons dark and sky painted in blues and greens. **_Finally_**.


	2. The Journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Languages such as Jel and Dunmeri will be italicized when spoken between two or more characters, context should tell you which it is. Sorry, I didn't try for pure accuracy as far as Jel was concerned, because trying to figure it out twisted my brain in a knot, lol.

Chapter 2: The Journey

_South. Downhill. Follow the river,_ murmured the quiet seer as she stood, bare and indecisive under the shadows of the moons. The ancient monster growled an echo of agreement, looking out from her eyes and seeping knowledge into her bones; this territory was claimed by the one who sat at Shearpoint.

_Krosis?_

**Geh. Krosis ahrk Krifdurpaar.**

The clatter of loose stone followed by a quiet curse had her ducking into a low crouch against the keep’s crumbling fortifications, right hand wrapped around the hilt of a wickedly sharp Orcish dagger, the left twisted in a familiar way, ready to call upon—

What?

The pool of her magicka was distressingly empty, a scrape of bone-gnawing pain as she tried to call upon—what spell?

She couldn’t remember.

She couldn’t remember anything.

The mage came around the corner, oblivious to her presence in the shadows –and that felt familiar, somehow– and the ancient beast had her lunging for him before the Breton could so much as gasp. He went down with a sick choke when the dagger pressed in under his ribs, hot red froth splattering across the side of her face, jaw crushing the delicate throat under her tongue in a quick series of crackles.

_Take his robe,_ the seer whispered, and that was that.

/-/

The water was clear and cold, almost too cold. None of it felt familiar, except to the seer, who more often than not kept quiet except to warn of stationary dangers: A tower over the river that should be avoided; a waterfall; rapids and rocks. A cave full of trolls. A camp of giants.

It was tempting to linger there, after fighting the split southern river’s current for some days, in the place she inexplicably knew to be the volcanic tundra of Eastmarch, in Skyrim. The water was markedly warmer and the hunting was…easy. 

The seer’s forewarning had her avoiding any Nords, especially those wearing blue or baring the head of a bear on their shields; some civil faction that it would be unwise to antagonize. The ancient monster didn’t care for the machinations of mortals, but bowed to the seer’s whims, given their strength was still recovering, their magicka bound by the shackles around her wrists.

She missed her magicka the same way she missed what once filled the empty spaces in her head –before they were filled by the creeping blend of melancholy seer and growling monster– but she didn’t need it to hunt. The monster agreed. The seer sobbed, but never argued.

Bandits were easy—men easier than women, most of the time.

“ _So far from home, venerated one,_ ” purred a male with scales the golden-green of summer grasses as he shed his layered furs and joined her in the hot, sulfuric pool. The horns on his head swept back in a way that made the monster curl with furious envy, unlike the loose forward spiral of her own. “ _Alone in this cold place. Do you seek a taste of home?_ ”

Foolish boy.

She tipped her chin back to flash the crimson of her throat, drifting towards the deeper waters and flaring her feathers coyly when he hesitated. He blended well with these waters, she noticed, submerging and drawing him close by the hand, watching his inner lids flicker in surprise when he finally got a good look at her.

The surprise didn’t keep him from twining with her as they sank to the rocky bottom of the pool, unsuspecting of her hand as it trailed languidly up the ridges of his spine, the dagger it sank into the base of his skull. His body thrashed once and went limp, a cloud of rusty red billowing from the wound when she removed it back to the sheath strapped to her forearm. Easy.

The only thing she disliked about these lovely sulfuric springs was that their heat forced her to eat quickly; the otherwise cold waters of Skyrim did a wonderful job of keeping the bodies fresh enough to enjoy at leisure.

/-/

There was a ring on her finger, and she didn’t know how long it had been there. In this, neither of the others could help, though once again the seer knew its significance.

Even before the ring spoke to her.

_Namira. The Lady of Decay._

‘ **My Champion** ,’ a woman’s voice crooned, drawling and seductive, as if woken by the delicate stroke of clawed fingers over golden, winglike shapes. ‘ **My quiet echo. Your continuing offerings please me after so long. My ring is now yours—wallow in your wretchedness, Champion, for it suits you well.** ’

She stroked the ring again, admiring the way it contrasted with her dark scales, the way its grooves held the drying blood of her most recent meal. Quiet echo, the Daedra called her. That wasn’t a bad name.

/-/

Traveling over land was unavoidable in places –the steep falls beyond Darkwater Crossing from Lake Geir, according to the map acquired from yet another unlucky meal– and it was often a struggle to choose between keeping to the easier roads, or straying from the path and having to fend off Skyrim’s aggressive wildlife. Leaving the road to follow the steep, rocky banks of the falls added considerable time and effort to her journey, but staying on the roads attracted an unwanted amount of attention to herself. Being _seen_ made her scales crawl.

As the weather warmed and the days grew longer, more people emerged from the safety of their homes and settlements, commonfolk and merchants more than mercenaries and bandits. The races of men who couldn’t help but stare at a Saxhleel woman in mismatched, ragged furs; that stood level with many of their Nord men; that couldn’t wear boots because her legs just weren’t shaped like theirs.

Worse were the dark elves, who would watch with cautious, flinty red eyes, muttering scandalously amongst themselves in Dunmeri about her coloring as if she couldn’t hear them.

Or perhaps they simply couldn’t fathom that a betmeri n’wah could understand their “noble” language.

(Though, considering the ebony shackles around her wrists and the emotions that stirred at the mere sight of a Dunmer, it was probably for the best that she couldn’t remember how she had become fluent in Dunmeri…)

When she finally found the opportunity to lure a lone dark elf from the safety of the road, the satisfaction from the look on his face when she crooned his language back at him was almost enough to let him go. Almost—but she didn’t believe in wasting a perfectly good meal.

/-/

“That’s the tallest mountain in all Tamriel, you know!” Echo glanced at the young Nord from the corner of her eye, taking in dark, sandy brown hair and the coltish form of a woman not yet completely grown. “Are you here to walk the Seven Thousand Steps?”

The Argonian almost smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression, eyes turning back to the mist-shrouded peak of the mountain. The monster was quiet, completely nonvocal, but Echo could feel its dark contemplation, the morbid curiosity—did its skeleton still lie atop the peak? The seer was… _busier_. A list of obstacles along the path; frostbite spiders, ice wolves, saber cats, ice wraiths, _frost trolls_. Cold, thin air, dangerous winds. The wise dragon, Paarthurnax.

**Geh?**

_Better the dragon than the Blades._

“Fastred! Quit slacking off, girl, your mother needs your help,” the girl squeaked in surprise when Echo’s head snapped around to look at her. Familiar name, but. She was supposed to be…older.

_The year. What is the year?_

“Apologies,” she rasped at the unnerved Nord, halting the cautious backsteps she was taking towards the man that called out to her. “You know this year?” The language –Tamrielic? Cyrodillic?– fell from her tongue clumsily, but that somehow smoothed some of the anxiety from the teenager’s face. The girl smiled prettily.

“It’s year 198, the sixth of Mid Year,”

If the girl said any more, Echo didn’t hear it. Everything was drowned out by the seer’s high, hysterical laughter. Then, singing? Chanting?

_Three years! Ahrk fin Kel lost prodah, do ved viing ko fin krah, Tol fod zeymah win kein meyz fundein! Alduin, feyn do jun, kruziik vokun staadnau, Voth aan bahlok wah diivon fin lein!_

The monster stirred, growling contemplatively; in that space in her head –ever less empty as three became one– their knowledge bled together, offering insight that only seemed to occlude her purpose here further. Saxhleel? In body, at least; in memory, as little as that meant. Dovahkiin? …Perhaps, by technicality, but it would only make them an enemy of Thuuri, even if they weren’t the _Last_. This circumstance certainly didn’t speak of the favor of Akatosh.

They would know for sure in three years.

/-/

“ ** _LAAS!_** ”

Seated atop a small island of rotting lumber that just barely broke the lake’s surface, Echo scanned the night-black water, the rocky shore. For a precious minute the world was lit with a shimmer of glittering lights more brilliant than the colors that so often wavered across the sky. Weak pearlescent flashes—fish drawn close by the dip of fingers into water. Pale green forms—deer bounding through the woods. Pulsing, ugly, clotted maroon weaving through the trees near the bank—the troll that had drawn her to the surface in the first place, its bestial roar and then frantic splashing as it caught a screaming man and tore him apart in the shallows.

It hadn’t noticed her, and Echo was fairly confident that it couldn’t swim, certainly not as well as she could. An Argonian always had the advantage in deep water. She _could_ leave. Yet her attention was fixed, closely following its shuffling movements with blatantly predatory anticipation.

_Troll fat is a valuable alchemy ingredient._

Eyes narrowing to intent slits, she grasped the splintering shaft of the recently acquired staff strapped across her back, the failing enchantment pulsing weakly beneath her fingers, nearly spent. Perhaps three bolts of fire left to it, and only sturdy enough for a couple hits as a bludgeon before it shattered completely…

But all she really needed to do was get it into the water.

**Fire. YOL.**

With a nasty grin that pulled tightly on the scars encircling her jaws, Echo slipped back into the sluggishly lapping water, silent as a shadow. The thrill of killing something that could actually put up a decent fight made their blood sing, their soul roar, anticipation sharpening senses enough that they didn’t need the ethereal detection of life to track the beast as she made the rocky bank.

It was turned away from her, a dark shape that reeked of musk and blood –fresh and old– grunting and snarling as it crunched through the bone in its massive, clawed hand. She stepped lightly around until she was between the beast and the water, staff held loosely at the ready, in a place she knew the bank dropped steeply into deep water. A dozen feet away and she thrust the staff forward, triggering the enchantment, and the blistering bolt of fire impacted the side of the troll’s head, briefly illuminating blood-matted fur as the beast roared and threw the half-eaten leg to the side.

“ ** _YOL!_** ” Echo shouted as it charged, a wave of scorching red fire blooming outwards, the troll roaring again but not halting, emerging from the fading flames already swinging a massive arm at her. She barely brought the staff up in time to catch the blow, the shaft crackling ominously at the impact, the troll’s face painted rusty red under Secunda’s light, blistered and charred, central eye shriveled and leaking thick slime. It roared, teeth longer than her fingers, and Echo roared back, the sound deeper than what her throat should have rightfully been able to produce. She dropped her shoulder and twisted around its next swipe, swinging the staff like a woodcutter would split a log and slamming the end into its head, shattering her weapon in one last explosion of flames.

The troll’s roar was decidedly weaker as Echo sprang back, her feet landing precariously close to the lake’s hidden drop into the depths, the sound of splashing water making the beast shake itself and stumble her way, near blind and stupidly furious. Her breathing was fast, exhilarated, and she clutched the splintered, charred remains of the staff in her right hand, eyes glinting as it screamed like a bull, charged.

She spun and dove, hitting the water in a near silent splash, twisting in place just as the troll followed, flailing and sinking quickly as its foot slid over the hidden cliff of a straight, ten foot depth. Before it could begin to recover, Echo was behind it, burying the short length of sharply splintered wood into the side of its thick neck and quickly darting away before it could do more than bat at her with fading vigor. It died quickly, after that; one last plume of silver bubbles disturbing the surface of the lake, and then it was just another feature on the lakebed, matted brown fur tugged by the current like thick algae.

Mouth pulled into a gruesome smile, Echo stretched her sore arms and pulled her dagger from its sheath, ready to harvest her spoils. Perhaps, if nothing else, she could become a troll hunter.

/-/

She was aware of them long before they finally gathered the nerve to confront her, three sleek forms cutting through the water towards where she basked, clutching a boulder to stay in the green-tinged sunbeam. Her furs hadn’t fared well to the constant water exposure, but with Riften in sight Echo felt no worry in abandoning them to the depths—she still had the mage’s robe bundled into the oiled carrysack for when she needed to be seen. Her lack at the moment wouldn’t make a difference to her kin.

Peculiarly, all three seemed to have bowed somewhat to the conventions of men and mer, wearing roughspun smallclothes as if their bodies didn’t provide all the modesty they needed. Held to their backs by sturdy leather straps were woven baskets, the silver-pink of salmon scales flashing within as they swam through the diffuse light.

The male that came closest was on first glance an attractive one, –vibrant blue scales and pale yellow eyes, a short crown of spikes from which grew bright violet feathers– but a closer look revealed a thinness of form that didn’t match his bones, a lack of luster to his feathers. A wasting illness, or…

_Riften has a skooma problem._

Echo narrowed her eyes, pitying and angered anew—elven _poison_.

“ _Greetings, venerated shaman,_ ” said the lead male, eyes lingering for a moment on the old carvings etched into her horns, longer still on the shackles and ugly, puckered scars. “ _Are you sent here for us?_ ” He sounded doubtful, yet hopeful despite himself.

And that felt…familiar. Shaman, yes, she was, wasn’t she? That was what she did; she advised, she fought, she _thought_ , she went where she was needed and did what was necessary—

(And if sometimes a culling was necessary, if a traitor needed to discreetly disappear, if someone discovered something they ought not’ve…)

“ _Not sent,_ ” Echo said at last, watching the muddy-red slip of a girl –she couldn’t even be old enough to carry an egg– dart out to skillfully snatch up a passing fish, claws barely damaging its sleek scales. “ _But I am here, and so long as I am, I will help as I am able._ ”

The monster ( **Dovah. Dulaasfrul.** ) grumbled noiselessly until they synchronized, quieting from complaints of helping the weak to the thoughtfulness of understanding. Her position was one of power, if less overt than it was accustomed; strengthening her people strengthened herself, bound them to her by loyalty, by trust in her words and actions. If she was competent and strong in her own right, but chose to help those who were not..? They would overlook the things that they didn’t like about her, defend and deflect for her, if only because of what she could do for them in turn.

The seer quietly pushed forth knowledge of what a band of determined Argonians could do: Drive invading forces of dremora back, incur upon Oblivion itself; march upon Morrowind to take back the land and people stolen by the treacherous Dunmer.

(Create a disease to clear Argonia of every outsider that dare set foot upon it, to kill by the thousands, hundreds of thousands.)

“ _Tell me,_ ” she said, gathering her bag of enchanted treasures and pushing up into open water. “ _Where is the most hidden place to enter the sewers?_ ”

If she would take up the role of shaman for her people of Riften, she would need a place for them –and _only_ them– to come to her. The seer insisted that there were hidden parts of the sewers that even the thieves wouldn’t tread, plenty of places for her to set up shop, as it were.

And beside everything else, Echo had a shrine to build. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'seer' is singing the theme song, yes, it's this verse:   
> And the Scrolls have foretold, of black wings in the cold,  
> That when brothers wage war come unfurled!  
> Alduin, Bane of Kings, ancient shadow unbound,  
> With a hunger to swallow the world!


End file.
